by Robert Gott
My thirst was mercifully alleviated when the door was thrown open and a billy of water passed to me. I didn’t see who’d delivered it, because the sudden light did such violence to my eyes that I had to turn away and protect them with the crook of my arm. The water tasted of tea and rust, but it was ambrosia to me. Although I ought to have sipped it and made it last, I drank it almost at a single gulp. There must have been a pint of it, so it successfully slaked my thirst. It gave me the luxury of being able to consider the stinging pain that was radiating from each of my shoulders, and I touched them gently. My fingers encountered sticky blood, and my thoughts immediately turned to infection. I knew that that way madness lay, so I attempted to gather the events of the last few weeks into a coherent shape.
It had been seven weeks since Brian and I had met with James and Nigella Fowler at Victoria Barracks in Melbourne. Intelligence would, no doubt, be pleased that the person who’d murdered five Nackeroos was now himself dead. Any hope of discovering his motive was lost, unless analysis of his relationship with each of the dead men turned up something. I suspected that Army Intelligence would have more pressing matters to worry about than the psychology of a lunatic. They’d be happy enough to consign the incident to history — a history that would never be written. It was an unsatisfactory conclusion, I thought. Knowing ‘who’ was all very well; knowing ‘why’ was the heart of the matter. Army Intelligence would most likely require that I stop digging about for motive, on the basis that settled dust was best left undisturbed.
Hours passed, rain fell, I was given bread (the open door revealing night) and another pint of water, and I managed a fitful sleep. Something crawled over my foot, and I let it, fearing that any sudden movement would excite it to strike. At some point, deep into the night, I wondered miserably how it was that I’d come to this. I was confident that I’d be exonerated and liberated — I had no expectation of an apology — but a bout of self-pity left me feeling most sorely hard-done by. I could draw the arc of events that had led me there, and I could see the awful logic at work, but at every point my trajectory had been fuelled by the incompetence and blindness of others. Even a man as clever as Archie Warmington had failed to comprehend facts that were self-evident. Fairly or not, I blamed him — and his determination that Rufus Farrell’s accusations be given equal weight with my own — for placing me in the vulnerable position in which I now found myself.
When I thought of Archie and the last conversation I’d had with him, I thought, too, of the recent interrogation in Katherine. There’d been something very peculiar about it. The peculiarity might have been a consequence of their belief that they were dealing with a strange kind of sadist, but there was something else. It was their reaction to my mentioning the three deaths that had occurred before Battell’s and Ashe’s. They’d been perplexed and dismissive, and had thought the comment so unworthy of consideration that they’d moved on to another question, as if my remarks had been the product of a disordered mind rather than a statement of fact. Were they anxious to avoid discussion of the deaths? My memory of the look on each of their faces was strong, and I’d seen no anxiety there — only genuine, fleeting puzzlement. Their statement that Battell and Ashe were the first and only casualties in the whole NAOU, let alone in A Company, had been made with the unequivocal confidence that it was the truth.
And, of course, it was the truth.
There, in the bleak darkness of solitary confinement, it became brilliantly clear to me that it wouldn’t be possible to hide three deaths from Command, and neither would it be possible to silence all the Nackeroos who must have had knowledge of them. I racked my brains, and couldn’t dredge up even the vaguest hint from anyone that men had been dying in A Company. The claim had been made by James Fowler and Army Intelligence, and by no one else. We’d been sent under false pretences. But why?
All the connections I thought I’d made began to unravel, and I was left with a series of incidents that made no sense at all. Ashe and Battell were dead, and Rufus Farrell had killed them. This fact now floated like wreckage in a sea of confusion. Why had he done it, and why had Intelligence put Brian and me at the scene of both crimes? Was Rufus Farrell working for Intelligence? As soon as I considered this, I knew I’d stumbled on a part of the puzzle. I couldn’t put it anywhere, but at least I had it. It made me feel sick. I must have been turning these thoughts over in my head for hours, because when the door opened unexpectedly it was morning.
‘Good morning, Will,’ said a familiar voice. When I’d adjusted my eyes to the glare, I found I was standing in front of Archie Warmington. He was dapper, neat, and clean. I was naked, bloodied, and filthy, and I stank. I felt at a considerable disadvantage, and the thing I most wanted to do in the world was punch him.
‘You look like shit,’ he said.
Chapter Eleven
the truth about lies
WHEN I’D SHAVED, SHOWERED, SALVED, AND POWDERED myself liberally with the luxury of Mennen Talc For Men, and after a halfway-decent meal, I felt slightly more well-disposed towards Archie, who was sitting opposite me in the office where, the day before yesterday, I’d been instructed in the rules. I’d been treated with considerable courtesy since my release from solitary confinement, although there’d been no suggestion that the punishment hadn’t been richly deserved. I decided not to pursue the matter just yet. I’d wait until my release had been finalised, and then I’d lodge an official complaint about the inhuman conditions at Brocks Creek.
‘Only you could get locked up in solitary within a few hours of entering this place,’ Archie said, and an annoying chortle escaped him.
‘I can’t see the humour in it.’
He waved my objection aside.
‘You’ll laugh about it one day.’
This was one of those expressions that always got my back up, and I was disappointed to hear Archie use it.
‘I’ve spoken to the three officers who questioned you in Katherine. I must say they painted a rather disturbing picture of you. They were of the opinion that you’re a necrophiliac, and it took all my powers of persuasion to convince them otherwise — and I’m not sure I managed to fully convince them in the end. They were most reluctant to give up the idea. They really didn’t take to you, Will.’
‘Just add them to the long list of the like-minded.’
‘Don’t be so glum. It’s just that things were rather stacked up against you.’
‘Frankly, Archie, I think I’ve got you to blame for that.’
His raised his eyebrows.
‘I didn’t put you in solitary confinement, Will. You did that all by yourself, and I didn’t decapitate poor, bloody Rufus Farrell.’
‘Neither did I.’
Archie sighed, folded his arms, and shook his head.
‘I know that, Will. Freak accidents happen. Admittedly, that kind of freakishness strains credibility, unless one knows the people involved. But that’s its great strength as an explanation for what happened. Besides, the sheet of iron has been found and examined and, despite the rain, there was enough of Rufus’s blood underneath it to support your story.’
‘You needed evidence rather than my word?’
‘I’m here to take you away from all this. Maybe you shouldn’t be fighting me.’
‘Over the past few days, Archie, I’ve been locked up, ritually humiliated, shackled to a dead man, subjected to impertinent and hostile questioning — not to mention vilification of the most odious kind — and you waltz in here and expect me to be pathetically grateful because you, and the powers that be, have finally accepted facts that were presented to you, by me, practically tied up with a ribbon and bow.’
‘And what facts might they be?’
I was flabbergasted.
‘The facts about Rufus Farrell.’
‘Ah.’
Archie took the opportunity to light up a kre
tiek.
‘You know, Brian is terribly fond of you, Will. He really is, but he has pointed out that you have something of a record in backing the wrong horse.’
I was too tired to struggle, so I simply said, ‘How fascinating. If you’d ever met his wife, Darlene, you’d know Brian has his own track record in that department — only he didn’t just back the wrong horse, he rode it.’
Archie laughed.
‘Are you saying,’ I added, ‘that you still don’t believe that Battell and Ashe were murdered?’
‘No, I’m not saying that. What I am saying is that Rufus Farrell didn’t do it.’
‘So you’re accusing my brother Fulton.’
‘No. Fulton isn’t guilty of those crimes.’
‘Those crimes? Who are you, Archie?’
‘I’m your commanding officer, although in Intelligence we don’t insist on such distinctions, and you’re not really a soldier anyway.’
I kept the expression on my face neutral, suspecting that this was some kind of trap. Was he trying to get me to admit that I was working for Intelligence? Was he trying to lull me into trusting him? Did people really just come right out and announce that they were Intelligence agents?
‘You work for Intelligence? Is that what you’ve just admitted, Archie?’
‘Why, yes, of course. There’s no reason for you to be kept in the dark about that any longer.’
‘Prove it.’
‘You’ll just have to trust me.’
This was where he lost me. He could have proved his connection with Intelligence in Melbourne simply by mentioning James Fowler’s name. He didn’t do it because he couldn’t do it. Was he working for the Japanese? My mouth became dry, and I was careful not to let him see that my hands had begun to tremble slightly. Archie Warmington, it occurred to me, was the ideal fifth columnist — urbane, intelligent, above suspicion. I decided I wasn’t going to play games.
‘What’s in it for you, Archie? What have they offered you? Money? Some kind of high rank in whatever mediaeval regime they impose?’
Even through my fear — and I was afraid — I managed a pretty decent sneer.
His eyebrows drew together in a heavy frown, and his hand stopped in midair on its way to deliver the kretiek to his mouth.
‘What?’ he asked, and the frown deepened. ‘What?’
His voice rose half an octave on that second ‘What,’ and I felt some satisfaction at having taken him by surprise.
‘Wait here,’ he said, and left the room. I knew before the door had closed that I’d been sent by Army Intelligence to unmask him. It made perfect sense. Rufus Farrell was an accomplice; but Archie, with access to high-level information about the NAOU and its positions across the north, was the traitor. Bali? Where else in Asia had he spent time before the war? James Fowler and his cohorts in Melbourne must have had their suspicions about Archie, and I could now deliver him to them.
I had no intention of waiting for him to return, and didn’t believe that he would return. Without knowing how I would stop him, I opened the door. All I knew was that he mustn’t get away. I knew all about him, and I wasn’t going to let him simply vanish. He would be brought to justice for his treachery. Armed with the information he’d passed on to them, the Japanese might even now be preparing to invade at a vulnerable point identified by Archie Warmington as undefended. Doubtless, he’d helpfully supplied them with maps of the terrain; maps surveyed under appalling conditions by Nackeroos whose lives he held cheaply. It is always, always, always the person you least suspect.
When I emerged from the room I saw Archie walking almost casually towards a small, battered truck that was parked outside the gates of Brocks Creek. I hurried after him, silently. I had no clear idea what I was going to do. The imperative was to prevent him from getting into that truck and driving away. He’d passed through the gate when I began to run. Off to my left I saw the figure of an inmate, trotting from one side of the compound to the other, and on the road I saw a car approaching. Archie stopped to allow it to pass, and I saw my opportunity. I threw myself at him, putting my full weight behind the leap. When I hit him he lurched forward, and both of us stumbled into the path of the oncoming car. Its horn blew, and it struck us with the blind, impersonal force of the machine. I’d never been hit by a car before, and I was strangely aware only of a painless thud, the sensation of flying, the taste of dust, and a slide into unconsciousness that was achieved with the efficiency of an anaesthetic.
When I woke I was lying on my back in the dirt, and I was dimly conscious of someone at a great distance saying, ‘They came out of nowhere. I didn’t see them. I couldn’t have stopped. It wasn’t my fault. It’s that bloke’s fault.’
I knew the voice, but in my dazed state couldn’t place it. Was he referring to Archie or to me? A moment later, I was left in no doubt. Glen Pyers leant over me and said, ‘You’re not badly injured, Will. What the fuck did you think you were doing?’
‘Spy,’ I managed to say. ‘Spy. Archie Warmington. Spy.’
‘Nong,’ he said. ‘Nong. Will Power. Complete, total, utter nong.’
Clarity returned when the generalised throbbing in my body narrowed itself down to the left hip and leg. I moved my toes and flexed my fingers, and assured myself that nothing was broken. Archie Warmington lay on the ground beside me, and his groans indicated that he’d suffered more serious injuries than I had. I propped myself up on my elbows and saw Glen kneeling beside Archie, who was only semi-conscious. Several guards from Brocks Creek had gathered around the scene, and a stretcher had been produced.
‘His leg’s broken,’ Glen said, ‘and maybe a couple of ribs. We need to get him back to Katherine.’
He nominated two men to take Archie to the Brocks Creek infirmary — a place I immediately imagined as solitary confinement with a bed.
‘We’ll stabilise him there and get him out of here as soon as possible.’
The medical authority in Glen’s voice was surprising, given his squeamishness about blood and injury generally. I didn’t feel sufficiently confident to stand up, so remained, like Gwendolyn in The Importance of Being Earnest, in a semi-recumbent posture while Archie was carried away.
‘I’m not authorised to talk to you,’ Glen said, ‘except to point out that you’re a very special breed of dickhead, and that people are going to be very, very angry when they find out that you threw Major Archibald Warmington under a car.’
‘People? What people? Tojo?’
‘I’m not authorised to talk to you.’
He helped me to my feet roughly, shaking his head all the while in exaggerated ruefulness.
‘Are you authorised to shake your head in that incredibly irritating way?’ I asked.
‘I’m not authorised to tell you.’
A few minutes later, I found myself again sitting before the blackboard in the Brocks Creek induction office. This time I wasn’t a prisoner, and it was Glen Pyers sitting opposite me rather than a maniac with a piece of dowel. He remained stubbornly uncommunicative, except to tell me that the Melbourne Cup was being run that afternoon, three weeks late, and on a Saturday owing to a string of government-enforced race-free days. I had no interest in horse racing, and asked him if he thought the information I had about Archie Warmington might be more pertinent to the prosecution of the war than the Melbourne Cup.
‘You don’t have information about Archie Warmington,’ he said. ‘You have misguided, silly, and bizarre misconceptions. They are not the same as information. The fact that you think they are is something of a nuisance. Now, I don’t want to get into an argument with you, or antagonise you. Unfortunately, we need you and, believe me, that’s not an easy thing for me to say.’
‘We? You work in vaudeville. Who’s we? The chorus line?’
A faint, roseate blush on his face indicated that he
was fighting an urge to express anger.
‘Archie should be sufficiently comfortable by now to speak to you. I hope so, because if I have to listen to you much longer, I’ll kill you.’
I followed Glen, reluctantly, across the parade ground, past compounds one and two, and entered the barracks in compound three. These weren’t salubrious by any means, and they smelled the same as the barracks in compound one, but at one end a section had been closed off. This was the infirmary. Archie was lying on a bunk, his leg immobilised in a rough splint, and his chest wrapped in bandages. He’d obviously been given a palliative shot of morphine — enough to take the edge off the pain, but insufficient to send him into a pleasant, dopey daze.
‘Why?’ he asked when he saw me. ‘Why did you try to kill me?’
It was such a blunt question that the least I could do was give him a blunt reply.
‘I wasn’t trying to kill you. I was trying to stop you from escaping. I didn’t see the car.’
The look on Archie’s face was blank, as if I’d just spoken to him in Swahili.
‘I’m sorry, did you say “escape”?’
I nodded.
‘I know, Archie. I know who you are. I know you’re a fifth columnist. I know you’re spying for Japan.’
‘Ah.’ He drew the word out. ‘And is Glen spying for the emperor as well? He was driving the car I was attempting to escape in.’
I hadn’t considered the peculiarity of Glen’s presence, and I wasn’t able to offer an explanation for it on the spur of the moment. With an attempt at insouciance, I said, ‘I have absolutely no idea.’
‘Nong,’ I heard Glen say behind me. ‘Nong, nong, nong.’
‘That sounds almost Japanese, Glen,’ Archie said. ‘Has another piece of the puzzle fallen into place, Will?’
I wanted to face Glen, to see whether his expression was betraying anything, but I couldn’t bring myself to turn around. I’d had enough of his special brand of ruefulness for one day.
